


Peter Grant and the Curse of the Council Flats

by Darklady



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Council Flat, Crack Treated Seriously, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:21:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24374932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darklady/pseuds/Darklady
Summary: So this fandom really DOES have a council flat -Skygarden - and in this less pleasant AU Constable Peter Grant ends up working there. Thomas Nightingale is living there. You do the math.
Relationships: David Mellenby/Thomas Nightingale
Comments: 7
Kudos: 31





	1. Moving on - Moving in

**Author's Note:**

> I confess I had never heard of the ‘council flats’ challenge until recently – indeed until this fandom. It was amusing and all but… nothing that caught my attention. Not at first. Then – mid-book – I had a revelation. This fandom actually includes a real council flat that the characters actually reside in! Briefly, I grant, but what it brief can be extended. Thus… a plot bunny hopped free.
> 
> Meet a less fortunate Thomas Nightingale, a less confident Peter Grant, a less honest Metropolitan PD, and above all a much more rational explanation for just why certain people indeed ended up living in a council flat.
> 
> Skygarden.
> 
> PS: Updates will be very slow. I’m writing, but I’m also having computer issues. Normally easy to fix issues but with how things are? The next update may be next month or even later. Think sporadic – not abandoned. The end is actually already typed out.

Thomas Nightingale? That name had to be bullshit. The only question was, was I looking at elder abuse or identity fraud? I hoped it was nothing worse, because I didn’t want to be the one to suggest digging up a Class A listed landscape. But I’m jumping ahead here. You think the years of office discipline would have cured that, but sadly no. I’m still me.

After Hendon I had been assigned to Case Progression. Not my idea, but the bosses were not listening to any suggestions. Their way or back to my folks sofa so… their way it was. After two years of twelve-hour days in Case Progression my superior assured me I was doing well. I thought I was about to do my nut. Again – guess who got heard.

I’d applied for just about every transfer going, but the ones who wanted me I didn’t want. Plenty of respect for the drugs squad and the gang squad and those lucky souls who didn’t get seasick infiltrating the smuggling gangs, but for myself I didn’t see ethnic as a career. The task forces I wanted told me I was making a ‘valuable contribution’ where I was and made it too clear that the upper structure didn’t intend to lose a fast typist. 

So it went.

Until Skygarden.

Back up a bit more. Skygarden was a posh name for a miles-from-posh council estate. The place had been a dump and a dumping ground – and here count me impressed that that much concrete could vanish from the London consciousness – until some berk in Hollywood had made a movie. Oh, it wasn’t about Skygarden. It wasn’t even about the architect, Erik Stromberg, who had designed the monster back in the post-war disaster days of urban planning. Think of it as your standard rom com with just a touch of Atlas Shrugged. Stromberg was written as the innocent victim crushed by capitalism. Obviously not a script going for realism. As chance would have it, however, the character was played by an actor who went on to star in some comic book movie. Instant explosion. Famous actor equals interest in previous work equals Netflix revival equals BBC interviews with the sort of architectural buffs who like to natter about urban design and who catch the attention of fat arse developers. Those would be the developers who noticed half a million square feet of valuable residential space going unrented in the rapidly gentrifying south Thames area.

Do the math. They did.

Politicians politicked. Lobbyists lobbied. Lots of backhanders got handed around. Now Skygarden was the lair of that evilest of entities – a public/private partnership. County Gard (that being the private part) would take over the maintenance and restoration, thus improving the look of the city books. In turn they would have the ‘underutilized’ apartments open to rent at market rates.

Given that Stromberg had clearly believed the underclass should be allowed large families? Those would be some impressive rates indeed. Most of the Skygarden apartments had two bedrooms. A healthy share ran to four bedrooms split on two levels. I had no idea what the market rate for those were, given that modern London didn’t offer those sort of floor plans for any money. I had to figure that the market rate would be higher than the 26th floor.

How does that affect me, seeing as I was still batching it in the barracks? (And being pressed to move along. Yes, it was covered in the job but the force had the same housing problems as everyone else in the city.) First – yuppie renters may have craved high design architecture, but they generally didn’t look as fondly at public housing tenants. The development company was willing to pay for granite countertops and polished concrete floors but balked at vandalism. Social Services had only so much blindness, and evidently they had used up their allotment earlier in the year and didn’t have enough social justice left to ignore anti-social actors while the gentry were watching.

The solution to everyone’s problems? 

Community policing!

County Gard would provide the (posh – naturally) community.

Community Outreach would provide the police.

One of the long disused common use areas on the entry floor was rechartered as a police post and a smiling crew of friendly community-oriented peace officers would hang out and keep the community friendly. (It is entirely possible that somewhere there was a list of those to be kept out of the community altogether. Being a mere Police Constable I can only speculate.)

Where did I come in?

One of the expectations of being one of these friendly community officers was that they would live in the community. (Well, the peons at Constable level would.) Thus on my first day over I was looking at my choice of empty flats. Take that literally. I had been bent over jiggling the stuck lock on the door to a two bedroom and wondering if I dared plead elderly parents and snap up the one I really craved. There was a double level at the end. Full windows, double balconies, and a prime view of the river if one squinted a bit. Unlikely the bean counters of County Gard would pay that much for the pleasure of my company, even if they had been distastefully delighted at adding a touch of shade to the otherwise pasty crew. On the other hand? No harm in trying, right?

I gave the lock one last shake, just to say I tried, and that is when I ran into Thomas Nightingale. Make that the resident who called himself Thomas Nightingale. IC1, my trained mind categorized. Out of place, my more native brain remarked. Not that I had been suspicious at the time. Perhaps I should have been. Sober middle-aged white males in neat chinos aren’t exactly the mainstay of social housing, but… they existed. I wasn’t going to make racist assumptions.

“Lock stuck?” Not, evidently, for an old hand like this man. He tapped the knob and it opened smoother than a tube of WD40 could have promised.

“Thanks.” I held out a hand. “Peter Grant.”

“I heard you were coming.”

That surprised me. “Didn’t know there had been an announcement yet.”

“I was down at Social Services yesterday,” and here he smiled “Not that it matters. I heard you coming. The elevator squeals.”

True enough. Squealed and knocked and rocked and needed considerable intervention; but it was working, which was more than could be relied on in the general run of housing estates.

“You local?” He had to be, given that I had not heard the noise of a second arrival.

“I hold the far end left side.” He didn’t point, just nodded slightly.

“Looks nice.” Looked illegal was more to the truth. The last ten feet of the hall had been separated with a really fine metal espalier. It looked like the sort of architectural detailing that went more with a mansion from the last century. The police part of my mind wondered where he had nicked it. Another sliver wondered why he wanted to section off his turf, and just how hard the gate would be to batter past if he was one of the more undesirable of the undesirables. A drug lab or some such. 

Not that I said such. I didn’t figure that went with the Officer Friendly instructions. No need to make enemies on the first day. I’d have the rest of the year to do that.

“You have both sides?” A bit of a test. If he said no maybe I could pretend to be interested in the spare flat. Clearly I had been seen to be shopping, after all. Not a question I could be called on. Plus it might get me info. Whatever he was hiding he wouldn’t want a copper as a neighbor.

“ That would be David and Molly. David Mellenby. They are… dear friends.” An answer, but also no answer. Or – the answer was no. I took it properly to mean no new folks need apply.

“What would you say about this one?” I waved over the general space of the now-visible flat. “For me, I mean.”

“Decent.” He gave me a slow look, one that took in a lot more than I was giving out. “However, seeing as you will not be required to budget the rent? I would recommend the one at the far end. It does offer an admirable view.”

And that, I must confess, was that. Somehow, without my thinking, I found myself and my tenancy application riding the elevator back to the office floor.

XoxoXoxoXoxoXoxoXoxoXoxoXoxoXoxoX

“You missed coffee.” Because of course I had, and no one had bothered to put in an order for me when Leslie May had gone out. Nor would she in the future, her tone made clear.

DC Leslie May was technically on my level. We had actually gone though Hendon together. Socially, however, and in all the ways that counted in the police pecking order, she was miles above me. I had been shuffled off into a glorified typing pool while she had been installed into the glorious challenges of the Murder Squad. I tried – and usually succeeded – in attributing her success to her balls to the wall attitude and merciless self-promotion. Her blonde beauty was just a helpful bonus.

Not that murder had served her well in the long run. She’d been hit full in the face by an acid attack while apprehending a suspect down in Soho. Not lethal, and rumor said that in time plastic surgery would amend most of the damage, but the run of sick days explained her removal to a less ‘stressful’ posting where her well honed skills of observation could be applied to missing televisions and the like. Or so – again via rumor – I had heard. Her position on the matter was unstated.

Leslie was the other ‘residential’ officer, and her pick on the third floor explained a lot about why I had been looking further up. I could take her as a colleague – not as a neighbor.

“No problem.” I helped myself to one of the energy drinks I had stashed in the station refrigerator on arrival. The rest were still there. Good. It was hard enough to keep the peace outside. A nasty nick was intolerable. “But it will be a grande latte next time.” 

“Write your order on a post-it and pin four pounds to the board.” That was DS Miriam Stephanopoulos, our boss. I had no idea why the Sergeant had been stuck… I mean honored with… this particular assignment. Couldn’t have been for any serious sin. The rumor mill gave her reasonably positive reviews. That didn’t erase the fact that this nick was seriously below both her reasonability and her seniority. As such, we should only expect to see the lady once or twice a week, whenever she could fit us in between more urgent endeavors.

Unlike the lesser representatives of order, DS Miriam Stephanopoulos would be keeping her London property. Ah the privileges of rank. 

We also had- in pure theory – a DCI to manage between the lower ranks and the elevated folks of the Police Commission and the various civic bodies taking an interest in the rehabilitation. That would be DCI Seawoll, who we had the native wisdom never to expect at all. Not if we knew what was good for us. That, in total, was our crew. The third patrol level officer the plan had required had been rendered redundant for budgetary reasons once all the boxes had been checked off. As there wasn’t even a name on the wind I suspected that he or she had existed only in political promises… and those were thinner than air. In theory we would also be getting civilian office support but… yeh… I’d believe that two days after they checked in. If then.

I kept my cash and settled down to the corner desk holding my hat. Desk space was also something I’d taken care of first thing. Booting up the local tenant listing I typed in the name ‘Nightingale’. Later I could try HOLMES but this would be faster.

Nightingale, Thomas, NMI. His occupation was listed as casual labor - unskilled. No parole restrictions. Another bad sign. I say that because when the tenancy form specifically says no parole restrictions that mean that there could be.

Shifting over to HOLMES I ran the name, keeping one set of fingers crossed. Former copper. That was rather a send up. Not a clean one, as he had been bounced on conviction for… that was different. Public indecency. I allowed myself to hope that meant exposure or renting or dubious porn and not something really nasty like kiddy diddling. WTF? 

I checked the screen again. The words were still there. Black and white. He had done two years. On a first conviction? Not looking good for Mr. N. I clicked again for the details. Again – WTF? On any other site I would have noped out – but this was HOLMES and the London PD didn’t do typos. 1952-1954. Indecency with another male person. That had to be false. The man I met upstairs couldn’t be older than forty-five. Fifty-five if he’s had an easy life, which didn’t, generally, align with prison time. Not that it mattered. No one did time fifteen years before he was born. No particular name mentioned so either the police at the time didn’t arrest said person or didn’t feel like bothering to cross-reference. But sex crime would have had to cross reference to social services because no one got two years for public exposure, and the crimes one did get time for were aggravated rape and/or the younger ends of statutory rape.

I clicked back to the first window, double-checking the dates. Admitted to public housing in August 1967. Still too frickin early. He might – long shot – have been alive but his mom would have carried him in the door. Resident ever since. No warnings. No complaints. No requests from or to social services, other than a change of apartment later in 1967. He had shifted up two floors to his current tenancy. No particular reason given.

Given a bit of thought I decided to just ignore the conviction. It couldn’t have been this guy anyway, and real Thomas had to be so far past geriatric to be vegetative. No threat to the children or the horses. Who the guy I had met was? How much trouble he could be? Well, that was my job to watch out for.


	2. A Walk in the Park

“Thomas Nightingale, was it?” I did my best casual voice, hoping that since the man couldn’t have actually been on the force he might not spot it for the cover it was.

“Constable Grant.” He sounded less convinced than willing to go along.

I was on my patrol. We were scheduled to walk every hour and a half – meaning six tours a day. To my utter lack of surprise these tours were timed to intersect the estate agents towing upscale potential tenants. They all expressed polite delight at the idea of police service on call, but few wanted to chat with what they clearly saw as the staff component. Good enough. I didn’t much fancy them either.

I would have detoured around the office but the front desk held the attraction – a word applied quite literally – of one Miss Beverly Brooks. She was a relative of one of the County Gard investors on summer work experience, thus pragmatically above my touch, but pretty and friendly combined to make her face one of the bright spots of the neighborhood.

I was supposed to split the work with Leslie, but somehow she always seemed to be on the phone when duty called. No bother. I preferred to walk. Patrol was surprisingly easy work. Existing tenants weren’t angels – no bunch was – but they generally kept the noise down and the off side dealings covered enough that I didn’t have to look into anything likely to disturb the Queen’s Peace. They made no complaints. I filed no complaints. We could all live easy.

The other man was also on patrol, I suspected. His ‘constitutional’ had swept out on a further arc than my own but followed the too-familiar pattern of those taught to cover observed space. More to the point he was toting a very heavy walking stick – one closer to a shillelagh. Worrisome, given how I hadn’t spotted a limp. 

Personally, I thought the man was shady as hell and pulling something in more than a ‘fake-disability-for-benefits sort of way. Not that I could back my suspicions. Whatever inquiry I sent out – and I had sent plenty – came back either ‘no record found’ or ‘Thomas Nightingale is older than fuck’.

I could name a dozen officers who would have been placing a weapons charge just to run his fingerprints but here is where officer discretion came in, it being understood the officer whose discretion that referred to was not P. Grant. I was under direct instruction to be a friendly local bobby and dress up the place. Arresting a local ‘influencer’ without the sort of charge I could one hundred percent assure would stick? Not likely to make DS Stephanopoulos and her bosses happy.

I shifted to intersect Nightingale coming up from the lower gardens. An off-blueprint access had been cut into the concrete and ironwork stairs had been attached. Impressive workmanship, it was. Loads or flowers and twisty bits in the over the top faux nuvo style that garden magazines swooned over and real gardeners – even the rich ones – couldn’t afford. Not a casual bit of jobbing given how the building architect had gone for bulk over beauty whenever possible.

“Your work?” I pointed to the stairs.

“I keep my hand in.”

Wasn’t that a non-answer? I already knew he had done it. The style was distinctive. Also surprisingly common around the place. I wouldn’t have expected tenants in public housing to shell out for decorative doors but a good portion of the hall doors had bits of twisted ironwork installed to the top and sides. Few, however, came near the installation down my floor. If this wasn’t Nightingale’s work he had to know the creator.

“Must make getting to the garden easier.” In my mind I amended that to possible. Whoever Stromberg had hired for the landscaping hadn’t been much concerned with accessibility. The trees were beautiful, yes, but completely devoid of amenities. No picnic area. No playground. It was clear that whoever did the planting believed in trees for trees sake.

I must have let something slip out.

“Trees hardly need excuses for existing any more than humans do. Possibly less.” That was from a Dark haired IC1 man holding pruning sheers. Since they were in a basket I decided to ignore the damage potential.

“Constable Peter Grant.” Nightingale put the accent on the first word.

“David Mellenby”. He shifted the basket, trying to free a hand.

“Of David and Molly? Delighted to meet one of my other neighbors.” I tried to pitch it sincere.

“David of Thomas. Molly is across the hall.”

Which answered something, although I was not sure what. One middle aged white man in pressed pants was rare. A matched pair had to be zoo-worthy. I wondered what sort this Molly would turn out to be.

“Pleasure to meet you.” I took his hand briefly. Best to be polite even to the dubious sorts. My mother had raised me right. “Do you have an allotment?” Seemed unlikely. If there were vegetables down there, I had no idea where.

“Rather, yes, just not in the garden down there as one might suppose.”

Well wasn’t that a mystery.

“Look up.”

I did, although?

“You want to check more carefully about the balconies.”

Right. From this angle it was hard to spot, but maybe a tenth of the outside balconies sported greenery. Not just window boxes, mind you, but full on trees and hanging vines.

“How do they manage that?” And also, my back mind added, how much weed could one grow in a seven by twenty plot? How much would that translate to in street dollars? Could that be what the faux-Nightingale and company were up to?

“Erik Stromberg had planned for every end apartment to have a green patio. Thus the name, you know.” Mellenby waved in that annoying posh manner. “Skygarden.”

“I don’t think mine is set up that way.”

“Well, no.” That brought out another flip of the wrist. “Management decided that the proles couldn’t be trusted with the upkeep and dumped quik-set concrete over the floors. Made a dreadful drainage problem during heavy rain.”

Right. I hadn’t seen much rain yet, but I had wondered if my carpets were at risk if the balcony flooded.

“I can arranged to have matters put back properly if you like.” Mellenby produced a card. On the back he jotted out numbers for one balcony and then for both. “It will run rather a bit, what with the need to rebore the drains and of course there are haulage fees.” He smiled, self-delighted at the prospect. “Plus, of course, there is the new soil and the nursery plants. You have some flexibility there but I would recommend going with a quality supplier. We have some very compatible local sources. If you are here to stay you’ll find it an investment.”

I took in the numbers. Investment indeed. Quite a sharp one. Evidently his business did not run to police discounts. I wondered how the general run of residents – who generally figured as folks on the dole – could manage it. My mind went to the weed again. Perhaps the neighbors proffered in trade.

“Might do, but I’ll have to save up a bit. Coppers aren’t gold, as they say.”

XoxoXoxoXoxoXoxoXoxoXoxoXoxoXoxoX

I decided to run another check. Overlooking this David Mellenby had been a probies mistake, as had assuming he lived with the Molly he had been mentioned with. The quick excuse was that I had been busy, but excuses paid no freight.

“Leslie. Can you take the next round?” Normally I didn’t bother her but, given that I would be doing office work? It was her turn.

“Can’t.” She had her jacket in hand. “Been called out on an investigation.”

“I thought you only worked here now?”

“It is location related. Report of stolen property.”

“The television in 18-12 or the bicycle from 7-14?” Most of the current tenants did acknowledge me. Not all happily, but openly enough that they bitched if their stuff had been snagged.

“Not tenant tat. County Gard had a landscape crane and some power tools go missing. That’s a bit more significant than a lost telly.”

Pricier, at any rate. Which I did not say.

“I’m heading down to their offices. May not be back until late.”

“OK. But tomorrow you cover me double. Right?” 

She didn’t bother to reply, any more than she would bother to cover any of tomorrow’s patrols. Mostly the demand was a sop to my dignity and make at least some pretense that I wasn’t the general dogsbody of the station.

With Leslie gone I was alone. Most days our five person station was a two-man office at best, the promised extra staff remaining as mythical as ever. I moved my inquiries – and my arse – to the front desk. So I’d miss a patrol. No one would die from it. If there was trouble folks could come bitch at me here.

The front desk computer was also on the HOLMES line, so would still let me do what I needed.

As before, I started with the tenants listing. There he was, 

David Arthur Willis Mellenby. Former teacher at some public school I had never heard of. Made redundant 1951. Oh, and that was interesting. Admitted to public housing in 1967, or about a week after Nightingale. No economic reason given. No previous employment – or even address – between 1951 and his move into Skygarden. No further effort at employment listed. He was listed at the B apartment where he evidently did not reside and not as a co-tenant with Nightingale. Not that I doubted their connection. More accurate to say that I doubted that they had bothered to notify the management of their domestics.

Checking HOLMES showed no convictions under that name. Well – none I could plausibly connect back to the man I had just met. 

I took a long shot and checked the tenant listing for a Molly No-Last-Name-Specified. Interesting. Molly Folly. Like that was ever a real name. Severe disability. No potential for employment? You didn’t get that much on the paperwork these days, not with the push for education or training. Again with the impossible date. Admitted to Leavesden Hospital in 1951. Removed to Skygarden in 1967 in the care of David Mellenby. 

Clearly some strange shit was going down, but why smart scamsters would go with such ridiculous dates? And did I want to ask? I’d sent an inquiry on Nightingale up the chain and received a death silence in return. More silence than even the nothing of disinterest. I knew Case Management. Heck – I had been case management. We might not have contributed all that much but we damn well got our acknowledgements of new files returned within 48 hours. Twenty-four usually. I’d been in Skygarden long enough to buy furniture and I hadn’t heard a chirp.

Make that their problem. I amended the request, adding two new names and a second inquiry under the code for benefit fraud. Maybe a budget drain would get attention. I stared at the button for a long time before I pushed send.

XoxoXoxoXoxoXoxoXoxoXoxoXoxoXoxoX

What the? Looking up, I noted that the walk lights were on and the sky was dark. Must have lost myself in the research zone. Leslie wasn’t back. She probably wouldn’t be, given that it was well past even her work hours. (Our shifts were in theory offset so the office could be available twelve hours while we only worked our statutory eight. Ask any policeman you know how that works out.)

Over the past days I had developed a suspicions that Leslie did not actually live on the premises, although why she would pass up the sweetest real estate deal in London was beyond me. Granted, she had shifted address to a one bedroom on the city side, but it wasn’t like she had been forced down-market. County Gard had signed off my preferred residence – view and all - and I hadn’t even had to plead an extended family. Not that I wouldn’t welcome my folks if it came down to that. Lately dad had been facing noise complaints, even though wasn’t able to play the trumpet like he had, and the neighborhood visitor had taken the idea that their current apartment – the one they had lived in since before I was born – was now too big for them to manage. She was eager to move them somewhere smaller – preferably a studio in an even less central location farther from any hope of Dad finding a gig.

Best lock up and head home, I decided. At least mine wasn’t a long commute.

Walking past I glanced down at the lawn. It was, to my surprise, full. People were everywhere, and canvas covered booths had been set up at seeming random between the trees.

“Farmer’s Market?” If so I hadn’t seen it on the schedule.

“Something like that.”

“You are?” Other than a greasy little worm that any of the old guys on the force would have shaken down on principle back in their ‘good old days’. I had principles against doing such, but it didn’t mean I couldn’t spot the type.

A fox-faced young man of the expected local sort was waiting at the stairs. I gave him the ‘move along’ glare. Not that I could prove he was shaking down folks at the entrance but he might have been thinking about trying it. Reason enough.

“Zach Palmer,” he introduced himself. “You want to buy it; I want to sell it.”

Wasn’t that a reassuring offer. I put his name onto my mental list of people to look up on HOLMES.

“So far I think I’m just window shopping.” Or perhaps patrolling, now that I was down on the green, although for a thieves market there seemed to be a shocking shortage of thieves. Rather than the expected slightly used televisions and detached auto accessories the booths seemed to be hawking green groceries and baked goods. 

Rather scrumptious looking baked goods.

I checked my pocket.

“Excuse me. Miss? How much are those?” I pointed to a particularly appetizing stack of buns.

The proprietress hissed. Sincerely. She had filed teeth.

“Sorry. Ms? Ma’am?”

She held up both hands. Three fingers crossed, then index finger to third, then two taps index to palm, then index to the curve of the thumb. All rapid motion, and followed by another hiss and a death glare. Oh. Right. BSL. We had learned that. M, then O, then…

“Are you Molly?” I managed to dredge up what I hoped were signs for the first two words.

She nodded, mollified. (No pun intended.)

I pointed at the buns again.

Her fingers moved faster.

I gave up. Clearly I had some study in my future, but for now? I pulled out a five-pound note.

She took it and proceeded to fill a white bag, first with the buns I wanted and then with other pastries I evidently also wanted but hadn’t known. Oh well – the lady knew her business, and if she didn’t I still had no way to protest. Best go along. Plus, you know, everything looked and smelled delicious.

Well fortified I checked out the rest of the offerings. One tent was a bookstore. It completely lacked the Mills and Boone category but seemed to be doing business anyway. In another a ghost-pale young lady swung some very sharp looking knives. Hand cut bacon, evidently, at surprisingly reasonable prices. I’d have to ask around, but if no one was down with food poisoning that was a spot to keep in mind. The category flea market tat was represented by a decent display of pottery dishes and clay flowerpots. 

Most interesting, down by the river there was actual live music. Acoustical, not electronic, which made sense as they were too far out to run a power line into the building. Luckily it was a full moon night, meaning the ambient light was sufficient if you didn’t need to read your music. A surprising number of people were dancing. I hadn’t thought alternative folk music would draw that many fans from the social housing crowd. Went to show, I supposed.

Hey! Was that Beverly from the estate office over there? Maybe she would like a bun? Just from a friendly neighbor. No obligation and all that. The thought got me moving but … sadly for me… I lost her in the crowd. She must have headed down the tunnel to the parking garage. I considered following but… no. I had no particular excuse, and following young women into dark secluded spaces was… not particularly endearing.

I squinted at the far areas. Somewhere around here had to be car-boot electronics. I wondered if I could justify a dubiously sourced TV under the premise that I intended to run the serial numbers and check just how stolen the goods were. Surprisingly, very much so from my experience of every other boot sale and parking lot market, I didn’t see that lot. No laptops with company stickers half scraped away. No televisions. Not even the box men hawking pirate DVD’s with blurry new releases. Odd.

Oh well. Better to wait. I was saving a fortune on rent, but furnishing the place was going to cost me most of that savings. So far I had splashed out on the universes most comfortable bedroom set and after that had settled for a sofa borrowed third-hand from one of mom’s cousins and a folding table and chairs from OxFam. I’d fill in the rest later, I reassured myself. I had time.

Speaking of time? One of the booths was selling clocks. Not the modern digital boxes but beautiful wooden clocks with the brass gears and weights. I could hear the tick from here. I wondered if a fine clock would look good in my potential future living room with my potential future furniture, and how much such a thing would cost. Having grown up generally with hand-me-downs and pass-overs and bits of office salvage (including the three file cabinets that had held my clothes until secondary school) I was a bit uncertain as to the price point of first hand new décor. It was nice stuff, however. Very nice. Even if the guy running the booth looked like a garden gnome.


	3. Bang On

Don’t be shocked that I was again walking. I wasn’t. Walking was what I did nowadays. Leslie May had grumped her way from one patrol in three to the current none in any via a combination of ‘being busy’ and just not being on site. I’d tried a mention the last time DS Stephanopoulos had swung by but evidently the mysterious ‘property loss’ case had expanded and I was informed that a proper ‘team player’ would gladly take up the office slack. So I walked. 

For all the sore feet it was still better than Case Management. I was, in the parlance of older times, learning the neighborhood. One thing I had learned is that this neighborhood was a bloody freak show. Unacceptable language, and never to be used, but… seriously. It was like some pre-PC circus had disbanded and dumped the redundant workforce on one housing estate. Make that a circus complete with the animal acts. There was one guy over in the east section who must have had I shudder to think what type of plastic surgery. The chum had actual tiger ears and stripes tattooed on his arms and face. (I refused on principle to speculate where else said stripes might run.) Not actually a bad neighbor once you got past the occasional GBI, and he had linked me up with a fair priced van man, which I figured counted more than some poor sartorial choices.

Most of the locals fell in that category. Decent people, dubious records, and casual employment of the sort not generally reported to the tax authorities. I was making that last most determinedly not part of my remit.

“Mrs. Sidorovna.” I held the door for one of the residents coming in with her shopping.

She smiled in return.

Good sign, that.

Sidorovna was one of a group to the north side I assumed to be recent immigrants. She looked young – late twenties at most – with the sort of blonde polish that in most dump estates would have assured her a profitable career on the nearest street corner. Instead she dressed like my granny (the one on my father’s side, let me be clear, as my mother’s family all had a flare for fashion) and did sod-knows-what for income.

I was never sure if she understood me. For that matter, I wasn’t sure if she spoke English or just Russian. Generally she – in common with quite a few of the other ‘long term tenants’ – seemed disinclined to speak at all. Not just to me, surprisingly. I mean, no one anywhere volunteered to chat with the police, no matter how many school presentations tried to alter that attitude. The surprise of it was that they seldom seemed to be chatting with each other – or at least not doing so where I could overhear them. No clusters of old guys smoking. No crew of young guys hanging out looking out for trouble. Not even many moms using the front concrete as a baby bin. No matter. As I made my way around the walk I nodded at the locals and they… let me.

Word had gone around that – for the filth – I wasn’t a bad sort. Thus most of the locals would at least nod in passing. Some managed a cautious sort of friendly, rather like when I was a child and the man with the Rottweilers had moved in. Dogs were… well, I had always liked dogs… but at the same time these dogs had some teeth. 

Thing is? As a group they made quiet neighbors.

XoxoXoxoXoxoXoxoXoxoXoxoXoxoXoxoX

I had just cleared the corner of ramp that turned past the loading ramp when I heard it.

Thin at first, then louder.

What was that banging? 

The workmen were clocked in at the other side of the building. By the record no one was supposed to be down here.

Please, I sent up a prayer to whatever underachieving deity was supposed to watch over patrolmen. Please not auto theft. Car thieves had enough to gain that they usually fought back, and when they did they had a ton or more of metal on their side. I detoured into the warrens of the ground floor. First blueprints listed this area as storage for the residents and the later plans listed it as community space but the lack of functional light bulbs put it on my map as the local dumping ground.

When built this area must have been the worst of depressing industrial caves; narrow, unsmoothed concrete support walls crossed with more concrete slab to build a minotaur-maze of inutility. Over the years this has been brightened – if debatably improved – by the steady accretion of graffiti. Some of it clever. Much of it vulgar. All of it better than what had come before, if only because the brighter paint separated the walls from the flooring. What surprised was, as I paced in the direction of the noise, the crunch of trash underfoot declined. There was still litter. No floor in housing was without litter. At this end, however, the waves of cigarette packs and snack wrappers had drifted in eddies up against the walls, leaving a clear central path.

County Gard’s gentrification crew had not ventured down here but someone had.

At the far end I could see the result. One of the heavy industrial doors was rolled up, releasing a bright electric glow. I moved closer, shifting to keep out of sight of the company inside while checking out the gathering.

Whatever they were up to at least they didn’t seem to be disassembling stolen cars.

The mechanical clang had stopped.

“Damnit, Thomas, I’m dying.” 

Now that was a shock. Not the words. I leaned closer. From my far angle the speaker looked about 98 and wobbled like a feather would knock him for ten. Shock came from the count of three well-dressed white men where the natural ecology should show zero. This new one was grey haired, freshly barbered, and inexplicably suited in the sort of conservative tailoring that even bankers had abandoned last millennia. The pricy cloth hung on him, giving the air of a vagrant in OxFam gear.

“We all die.” 

I knew that voice. As I cleared the doorframe I picked out Thomas Nightingale lounging against a well-used workbench.

“You haven’t.”

“No thanks to you.”

“How did you find it?” He gave the room the sort of general glare that, had it been a person, might have preceded handcuffs and in older days a trip to somewhere very dark where records might be incidentally lost. “ Was it the stone or…? Was it you, David? Did you find something?”

“There is no stone, Wheatcroft. We read Newton, not Mallory, and we are none of us Welsh demons. There is no stone, no grail, no book.” That was Mellenby, the second of my suspiciously unsuspicious characters.

“But you are doing something.” He grabbed for Nightingale’s arm. 

The man paused before shaking free. “How could I? You had me expelled.”

A bloody weight on the last word made more than clear he wasn’t talking about an exit from third form gym class. I had no idea what the topic was, but my coppers experience marked this as the sort of fight that could turn bloody. Worse. Bloody fights started with shouts. His tone held the cold brand of rage that ended with forensics crews chipping bodies out of foundation concrete.

“You’re back to it. I don’t know how but it’s obvious.”

“Matters which are obvious require no explanation.”

“If the Folly finds out…” Now the glare was focused on Nightingale. 

He was about as moved as the concrete wall supports had been.

“A threat, Wheatcroft? How much good did that do you before?”

“You pathetic pansy. You’d be foolish to risk finding out what it gained me.”

“Less than you hoped, and given that social currents have shifted to my side of the river?”

“You think you are so fucking clever, the pair of you, prancing around this pit with your fairy friends like you can…”

The elderly fellow raised his right hand, as if to slap. Good luck with that, seeing how he was a fair five feet away. That’s without taking into account that either of the men had both inches, pounds, and a fair chunk of youth in their favor. Still, it counted as an action towards assault, meaning I had excuse (if not pragmatic cause) to intervene.

“That’s quite enough, sir.” My spin on ‘sir’ made it clear that the use was strictly regulation. “These gentlemen don’t need to hear remarks like that in their own homes, and they surely don’t need to suffer assault.”

“You’re on his side too, are you?” He laughed. One of those villain huffs you never hear in real life.

“Move along, sir.”

“I will depart, for now.” He shot a sneer towards Nightingale. “When I return we will resume this conversation, and not so… politely. You may regret that you didn’t seek terms when you could.”

“Sir!” I took a step forward.

“Enough! I’m gone.”

And then he was. Rather reassuring, as I wasn’t honestly sure I’d have been allowed to arrest the man even if his ‘attack’ had gone across. Ninety-year-old pensioner pimp slaps buff workingman? More likely to get a laugh than a charge. Not to mention? There was no official word but the ill wind now carried a sniff of unspoken rumor. Someone high up in Planning was getting itchy about the new tenancies and County Gard’s plans might be changing. Usually I ignored that as above my level, but if toffs were going to come in and fight that would bring it down to my level. Such things seldom worked out well – and almost never for the common officer caught in the scrum. 

“So you… work here, Mr. Nightingale?”

It was a question only in the grammatical sense. These spots were supposedly empty – having graduated from their previous supposed disuses to a listed abandonment – but where we were standing was anything but. In addition to the heavy and work scared wooden bench the room held a round of tree trunk thicker than any two of us standing together and on that an anvil. The open front forge braced itself into a corner below a hybrid of vent chimney and extraction fan. One wall displayed what I assumed were smithing tools – hammers and clamps and less familiar functionaries. Everything showed the mix of hard use and close maintenance

Thomas Nightingale said nothing.

“I knew you were the one making all those twisty door bits.”

Still nothing – which was never a good sign. Best de-escalate.

I smiled my most gormless smile. “Do you think you could do one with my name? What would that run me?”

XoxoXoxoXoxoXoxoXoxoXoxoXoxoXoxoX

I was back to the office before my slow brain caught the most interesting bit of the exchange. The old fart had called Thomas Thomas and David David. That meant those really were their names, or at least had been in use as their names for long enough to become their names. Not from the middle of the last century, obviously, but still long enough that I probably wasn’t looking at a quick move-in scam to collect some dead guy’s pension checks. Whatever they were doing it was… what they did.

Constable May wasn’t at her usual perch by the front. I found her in Stephanopoulos’s office. The computer was on and… one hated to suspect a fellow officer of snooping though a superior officers email but… if there was anything else going she hadn’t said.

“Leslie. Are we expecting the Sergeant today?” 

“No idea.” The paper from the printer flanking the desk ended in her purse. “I’m out for lunch.”

I noted she didn’t say where or with whom. That she was going out suggested both. It might have been incident related – a lunch meeting – but from the way she was dressed? After day two DC May had given up on the uniformed portion of uniformed patrol. (That was just a bit after she had given up the patrol portion.) Which was… well, it wasn’t against regulation, exactly. She was still a Detective Constable.

I firmly told my jealous side that she didn’t mean anything by it. After years in plain clothes she probably only owned a single standard uniform, saved for parades and special duty, and with the cost of her day wardrobe she probably couldn’t afford to buy a second just for the office. (I deliberately did not speculate as to how she could afford her non-uniform wardrobe. That way lay madness and retribution for narking on a fellow officer and suspicion from Standards and Practices as to why one had not narked quickly enough. My bank account was empty enough to serve as a defense, but the best defense was not coming to their attention in the first place. Or ever.)

Besides, the manual repeatedly stated that the uniformed and detective branches were equal, with neither service favored.

Right. Sure.

I checked the clock.

“It’s just past eleven.”

“So?”

“Right. I’ll be doing next patrol as well then.” I didn’t bother asking when she’d be back. She wouldn’t.

XoxoXoxoXoxoXoxoXoxoXoxoXoxoXoxoX

The door capper was installed when I made it home that night. It looked nice. Suitable. Most of the twists held the same odd symbols that had become familiar from other doors, but it did have the letters G-R-A-N-T tucked into the foliage. My name. My place. I figured that made it worth the cost.

My last visit to my folks had left me with the packs of Tupperware that among my kin came with affection. One fit easily in the microwave, the five-minute button already set. Soon a scent of pepper and spice covered the previous tinge of Lysol and old linoleum.

I opened the balcony door. The breeze flowing in was fresh, spring-like.

So what if the carpet was twenty years dead and the sofa needed a stack of procedure manuals to prop up the missing leg. It was good enough. It would get better. This would be my place.

I settled down to a bowl of my mom’s rice and felt really, truly, uniquely at home.


	4. A Change in the Weather (or not)

On the day after the fight-that-was-not, something was different.

“Leslie. DC May. You’re in”… I pulled out of my shock fast enough to salvage that with “early”. She was also in uniform and in her assigned desk space. That trifecta was sending up warning flares.

“Time I was taking my share of the site work.”

“So your theft investigation?” Theft of tools had been her official excuse, if not a very plausible one, for spending seven hours of eight out of the office and off of the Airwave system.

She shrugged. “A river found it. I mean, the truck was found in a river. Joyriders.”

If she said so. Personally I didn’t know any teens who would pick a construction lorry for their evening entertainment, but supposedly it took all kinds.

She shot me the kind of smile I would have died for back in our training days, back when my crush was unconcealed. “If you’ll hand me your notes on the tenants I can enter them.”

Leslie May hated typing. Always had. But?

“If that’s what you think best.”

I passed over the stack of parking complaints. Most of those were against new tenants double stacking or delivery trucks blocking vehicles. She’d probably enjoy visiting the toffs, and in any case it was all regulatory trivia. Most of it was so trivial I would have dis-filed it if the slightly-guilty parties took the warning given and learned to keep all tires between the yellow lines.

She accepted the stack with pleasure. “Great way to get to know what the locals are up to.”

Great way to spy on a collegue, my suspicion countered, except I doubted she had any interest in me, not in a professional way or any other.

The coffee pot was actually started, meaning that I could have a coppers hot breakfast before reviewing morning emails. Probably there would be nothing, by which I meant nothing beyond the tsunami of training updates and policy notifications requiring to be read and properly acknowledged before being shifted into the ignore files, but I had learned early and via embarrassment that an occasional direct command could lurk below the administrative debris.

“I brought muffins.”

Oh. She had. Fancy ones, from the look of the pink box. “They look great!”

“Take one.”

“Sure. Thanks.” I checked out the selection.

There were napkins and even little disposable plates. This was… a bit too much.

“Don’t you like them?”

Uh… Why wasn’t I eating the muffin? It looked delicious, but…

“Saving it for patrol.” That was the best thing, now that I thought about it. That long ramp up the back could do with a break mid-slog. 

Decided, I settled down to my computer. No station response to any of my three previous inquiries; not on Thomas Nightingale, not on David Mellenby, not on Molly Folly. Correction. There was one, although not from police files. Molly ‘no last name given’ was confirmed as a patient at Leavesden Hospital from 1951 to 1967, when she had been checked out by her ‘cousin’ David Mellenby. Rationally, the whole thing had to be fake. Those dates weren’t just wrong they were ridiculous. Not to mention that the cover story was almost as implausible as the timeline. Even in the abusive 50’s an asylum wouldn’t handover a female patient to just any man who asked. But they had.

Either Thomas Nightingale and David Mellenby were the two most persuasive speakers in the history of the English language – persuasive like the second coming of Sevengali - or something distinctly fishy was on. My bet was on the fish.

On the other hand? The answer from the hospital included a photo. It couldn’t be Molly but it looked like her, and if Molly was Molly like Thomas was Thomas? Not only fishy but the big fish. Which? Maybe time to cast out a lure.

“Actually, May, there is something.”

“OH?”

“There is this woman. Molly Folly?”

“Yes?” Leslie sat straighter.

As if. I knew her from Hendon, and since day one of training I had been informed that Leslie May had zero interest in the pastoral side of policing. What was more, she had made it clear that anyone suggesting otherwise was sexist and presumptuous and in severe risk of a professional standards complaint.

“She’s one of the tenants down the hall from me.”

“Living with Mellenby, right?”

Right indeed, or at least right according to the deed. Exactly how did she know that? Wasn’t like she had been around enough to meet the lady… or much of anyone. In fact Mellenby lived with Nightingale and Miss Molly Folly ran her spare apartment space as a productive (if unregistered) commercial patisserie. As in – more than one of the previously mentioned parking complaints were from white trucks waiting to pick up pastries for the local coffee shops. It might have said something about my recent failure of standards that I was comforted by the presence of a positive and productive sort of criminal activity.

“She doesn’t speak. I don’t know if she can’t or won’t or if it’s physical or psychological but?”

“Yes?”

“I really hesitate to suggest this. I’m sure its, well, you have more direct duties calling on your time, but...”

“Please. We’re all here to do the job together. Teamwork in the community.”

Straight off the sign on the door. I believed it now like I believed it the first time I read it. Right.

“I was wondering, perhaps, if you had the time, if you might want to make a welfare check. I mean, I don’t know that she is in danger of exploitation or abuse but… given the communication problem?”

I watched Leslie’s smile grow. It wasn’t one of concern for the underprivileged.

Time to see if I could press her luck. “I’d have done so myself but sometimes a uniformed man imposing from outside can just make things worse.”

“Don’t worry, Peter. I’m glad you brought this to my attention, and I’ll make sure I find time to interview her. Today.”

So that had changed. Improbably.

Something else – something more material – had also had changed. I wasn’t sure what, or why I irrationally connected the strange air in the office with a skinny old white guy with a snappy temper but… I did. I’d call it instinct if I hadn’t so sternly been taught that I didn’t have that talent for a proper thief-taker.

I counted action points as I walked.

Clue one was that, when I took the second patrol, the estate desk was suddenly empty. Pity. Beverly Brooks hadn’t given me a date but she had still been the most attractive part of the scenery, not to mention a cheerful source of intel on the most recent renters. She would be missed; at least by me. 

Actually, the entire estate office had dissolved. The desk was empty. The counter – former home to a Kurrig machine and a selection of coffee pods – now held only two stray sugar packets. One of those was leaking. The seating area arranged in the stylish shade of the potted plastic greenery was still present but the rotating display previously stacked with bright brochures showing off expansively decorated version of the various floor plans was empty. Even the daily cast of estate agents had evaporated. I couldn’t honestly say that I missed the Oxbridge sods but their absence left a void in my day. If nothing else trotting the keys up and down from the police office had been a break from solitary walking.

Clue two was said absence of the future rent-payers. Last week they had come by more reliably than the local buses. From the volume, I’d honestly expected the place to be filling up by now. The location was prime and the flats were honestly gorgeous, so the inundation of the pale and privileged had been expected. Attracting them had been – indeed – the entire purpose for the refurbishment of Skygarden. Why today it was not - why the lowest loading docks were suddenly barren of branded delivery vans – seemed to me a mystery for the ages.

Again, I wasn’t certain I could swear that I disliked the change. What they had added to my day was mostly complaints over parking allocation and questions as to just where was the nearest Waitrose. I wouldn’t quite say I resented such things. Complaints and questions were the two mainstays of community facing policing. Perhaps I could grant I found the longer-term tenants more… colorful.

Clue three was… nothing I could define. Something else in the category of missing, I decided, but something I didn’t know well enough to spot when it wasn’t there.

The workmen were still coming by, although seeing as the office email no longer received the daily work listing (a detail which perhaps qualified as thing four that had vanished) I couldn’t have said what work they were doing. Not what they had done before. Something electrical was my guess. Some of the trucks had warning signs on the back for explosive or toxic cargo. There was lots of banging around the foundations and drilling in the parking areas. For myself I wished they would get back on the atrium. Sooner or later someone was going to topple one of the ladders or trip on the new hung sheets of plastic, or worse still give up on the idea of new cladding and just graffiti the whole place. That last would end up as my problem, more so because cautioning someone’s kid would be the opposite of community facing police relations.

I made a mental note to rework my patrol route. Best be going around that area twice. That meant losing control of the smokers in the garden – I had seen cigarette buts and other inhalables dumped in the mulch - but better a fire risk than reportable property damage.

Maybe I could request CTV for the area? 

I had an email addy for the security office at County Gard. It couldn’t hurt to make a request. Their office was in a pretty upscale area. Maybe a visit to company headquarters was one more task Leslie May wouldn’t mind taking on.

Half way around I rested on the ledge over the loading dock. By now I was hungry. No coffee today from the estate office, and I was missing it. Good idea I’d had to pack along that muffin. I was about to take a bite when thin fingers clamped around my wrist.

“Molly?” Where had see come from? How had I not heard her? Most of all, why was she confiscating my snack?

I pulled my wrist back – slowly. I had no wish to startle her.

“Is there a problem?”

She held out her hand. It was a particularly emphatic gesture.

“You want the muffin?”

That brought a nod, her head up and down like a Vine clip. Again her hand shot forward, palm flat and demanding.

“You can have it, but wouldn’t it be better if you came by the office? I can call your social worker if you need something.” Or if she was hungry, although given her income was likely better than mine? Unless maybe there actually was some exploitation going on, and my ideas hadn’t been just a spin to keep Leslie May off my back. Not that I thought there was. Molly was scary. But scary didn’t always mean safe so…“Would you like me to bring someone by later? Would that help?”

There went the hand again. It is very hard to debate someone who has no voice.

I surrendered my muffin.

She broke the pastry in half, spitting on both haves before tossing it down to the open bin below.

I needed to do something. Heaven could not answer what, but you can’t have people – not even strange and probably disabled ladies – stealing things from coppers. Not even muffins.

With a last snarl Molly held out a white paper bag. Inside lay three iced biscuits and a steaming chicken pasty.

I should have said something. What – I to this day have no idea – but something – but she vanished before I recovered from my shock.

XoxoXoxoXoxoXoxoXoxoXoxoXoxoXoxoX

I woke for no reason. It was… I checked my phone… three am. Even the brown bag drunks should have hit exhaustion by now. Certainly foot-sore constables were properly in bed at this hour. So why?

I almost ignored the buzz. Likely would have except that the light coming through the window was reflecting off of the far ramp, flashing up from the garden below where no light should be. Not at this time of night.

Bugger them if they were having another market.

Evening boot sales were one thing. Unpermitted, perhaps, but useful. Neighborly even. Crowds and lights at this hour meant a rave and that meant drugs and vandalism and property crime and if life managed my usual seriously poor luck some chub overdosing and blaming the local management for lack of care.

Again, bugger it.

I pulled on my boots.

Best have a look and a word, and if it took more than that I could bounce the matter up to DS Stephanopoulos or even the possibly mythical DCI Seawoll in the morning. Past debate this was some brand of economic crime. Proffering without a license, maybe.

I was down the elevator and nearly to the metal stairs when I heard the scream.

What the…?

Once on the landing I aimed my flashlight at the clump of men below. Not kids, and not ravers or any sort of party crew: beefy men with hard hats and safety vests. They looked like regular workmen, the sort that shifted around the building most of the daylight house. That made it all the stranger that they were here, not during working times, but in the middle of the night.

On the far side glowered a truck with the County Gard logo. I couldn’t see what the men behind it were doing. The bulk of the vehicle to one side and the overgrown trees to the other blocked what little light my flashlight supplied.

I moved closer.

As they shifted I got a better view of what the men were up to. They were cutting down a tree. Several of the men had run ropes up to the branches while the main actor manhandled a chain saw against the base. As the first man had hacked out a wedge two more shook the tree, trying to pull it over.

No way that anyone had permissions for that. Even if they were working for the management company these mugs were both making alterations in a Category A protected property and violating noise restrictions in a residential zone.

I pressed the Airwave button, signaling for backup.

The screams had fallen off – now more like moans – but cause enough to think more than unauthorized landscaping was going on down there.

The saw bit again, and again there came the god-awful scream. I couldn’t see who, or by whom. The lights were arc-bright where they hit but that made the shadows correspondingly black.

BOOM! 

Thomas Nightingale. The man crouched behind the side wall, down on one knee like a sniper. He was holding his walking stick like a bloody rifle. (I considered if it might be one. It was long enough, and I’d had the lecture about concealed and unlawful weapons, but… no. No muzzle flash and there was not quite the same tone in the report.)

Down below was chaos. No one was bleeding, a least not that I could see, but they were most sincerely disturbed. Two, at least two, sprinted for their truck. A few more sprinted for the tunnel. 

He shifted the wooden staff.

BOOM! The truck spun, nearly flying off the road. I could hear the squeal as the tires fought to keep their grip on the suddenly slick pavement. Again I had no clue as to what Nightingale was using as a weapon. You would need a grenade launcher to shake a truck, and while those occasionally entered the view of some particularly unlucky officers- those dealing with terrorism or the more advanced sorts of drug dealers, they generally didn’t show up in urban London in the hands of five-county white guys and they definitely didn’t fit into said chaps walking stick.

“Police.” I dredged up my command voice. “Put down the saw and move away from the tree.” It was in moments like this I wished I had taken the offer to join Armed Response. More honestly, I wish I had called armed response.

The man with the chain saw didn’t look persuaded. No cause to blame him; I didn’t even convince myself. The only positive was that I was upstairs, and that I didn’t think he could climb a narrow metal stair holding a chainsaw. Certainly he couldn’t do it before I could get behind a locked office door.

He raised the usual finger my direction. “Fuck you!”

The railing shook. Bastard was going to try.

I braced myself for the fight I would probably lose.

The flash and boom came again.

The chain-saw man froze, one foot on the stairs.

“Hold up there.” Nightingale was standing now, stick dropped into an elbow brace. “This nice officer said put down the chainsaw, so put it down before I put it somewhere you’ll sit on it.”


End file.
